Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge #338

These ten words are not random at all. They are from the mad mind of Anklebuster, who has been masquerading as an administrator since the end of April. He has concocted a devilish scheme over the past ten challenges. Today, it hatches!

Do your usual writing prompt, or take the Anklebuster Challenge: “What has been going on since CCC #328?” Your submission should attempt to answer that in a creative way. Spoilers are perfectly fine but, if you can obscure your answer to keep the next writer guessing, so much the better.

This is a writing prompt. Bet you can’t do it! Take the 10 words below and crush writer’s block by creating a cohesive, creative short story! And remember: after (if) you finish entering your submission into the comment field, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words. (If you’ve missed previous writing prompts, we BET YOU CAN’T do those, either.) NOTE: Our bolding plugin is gone, so you’ll have to put <b> and </b> around each of your words if you want them to stand out, but NOT REQUIRED THOUGH.

NOTE: Don’t copy and paste from MS Word. Use a program like notepad that removes formatting or just type in the comment field itself. Also, finish your submission, THEN bold the words. Thanks. (And don’t forget to tweet this and share it with your friends.)

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“Attention, passengers! We will be landing on Mars in about six hours. Please ensure that you have completed the required expatriation ritual. It only takes a minute and will allow you to enjoy full rights as a freemer. Those who fail to comply will be confined to quarters.”

Mikhail Tomsky popped the latch on his cryotank, lifted the hatch and took a deep breath of recycled air. He switched off the tinny speaker. He had no intention of being indoctrinated. As a lieutenant in the Herrenvolk, he was exempt from the forced mind control procedure. While the benefits of the ritual included surcease from bigotry, stupidity and forgetfulness, it also required adherents to submit to monthly boosters – for life. Tomsky knew he didn’t need chemicals to shape his thoughts.

He eased himself out of the tank and stood on shaky legs. As his body readjusted to being upright, he thought about the daunting task ahead: building a coalition of survivalists from this un-Noahlike collection. Each colony ship in the Herrenvolk fleet had been prepped deterministically, in hopes of finding the optimal balance for intra-galactic expansion. Tomsky’s ship had a preponderance of humanity’s fringe.

He was chosen to lead this ship because of his outspoken views in support of lesser beings. While his fellow officers tittered and tsk-tsked at his presumed punishment, Tomsky welcomed the challenge. Now, he just had to create synergy between shadchanim and morticians, sycophants and ideologues, economists and vigilantes!

Walking into the great dining hall, Tomsky found his inspiration in the former Hall of Famer who was ousted for sports betting. The baseballer, whom everyone had assumed was wealthy, had spent all his money fighting a rare disease. When modern science came up blank, the sick man entrusted his health to osteopaths. He died, anyway.

Tomsky always admired the courage of that man’s family, who refrained from suing doctors and quacks. What he never considered, until just this moment, was that the medical community was not blamed because of the experimental nature of their treatments. In the absence of established order, chaos can mix, grow and spit out anything. Nobody screams when a snowflake lands awkwardly.

This Martian colony would become the greatest human science lab ever conceived. Majority rule shall be the order of the day. Let the marriage brokers try to organize unions between faithful and infidel. Let the undertakers flip a coin on disposing remains. Test the resolve of the ideologues when they face no opposition from the bootlickers. And certainly, see how the economists will pretend to have all the answers for the new society, only to be struck down by the watchful eyes of the guardians.

Tomsky sat down beside a little boy, ruffled his head playfully and ate his final on-board meal.

Das Herrenvolk had been defeated. Nazi Germany was tattered and torn, her children weary and worn, all alone. Already the ideologues were dissipating, unlike the flesh-feasting flies that devoured the fallen; victor and vanquished, downtrodden, advantaged were consumed alike. The sycophants followed the zealots, their blank minds and pursed lips little use for anything else. A plague surged through Europe, rats chasing rats, in turn chased by cats with memories longer than lifetimes and hearts much less than forgiving. The chase continues to this day.

Shadchanim, casting off one badge for another, gambolled in the sunshine, plucking peaches and pears to create the grapes and apples of the future. The harvest was heavy, the fruit under-ripe but sweet. Oh-so-sweet. A broken race tried to mend themselves. Clay people glued together, made strong once more, but whose cracks would show forever.

There were many who sought vengeance, yearned to be those felines with sharp teeth/eyes/ears. “Vigilantes” they were called by others; “wronged” they cried in return. They could see only the gaps in the pottery, not the vase that remained. The pattern was disrupted but it could be replicated and rebuilt, improved upon even, made more beautiful; osteopaths battled morticians whilst economists counted the cost. None of it mattered; the time has passed.

* * *

General Kohl IV watched a lot of TV. The picture was often poor, the signal weak so far from the broadcaster. He loved sport and dreamed of being a baseballer, beating the Americans and smashing those little round balls deep into the sky. In some of his dreams they soared to Earth, pummelling the puny planet into submission.

His great-grandfather had arrived nearly two hundred years ago, a young man of 24 who died an elder of 73. Everyone knew the story of his escape from the smouldering ruins of post-war Germany, the struggle to establish the colony, the deaths, disease and disasters that almost destroyed their community. But General Kohl led them through the tough times, passing the baton onto his son to his son to his son, who had all served as trusted lieutenants in the army, to prepare for the inevitable contact.

And it would be soon. They had sighted a ship making its way to the colony, travelling that short but almost impossible distance from Earth to Mars (it has been a miracle, accepted as a sign of righteousness, that they had made the same trip hundreds of years ago). It would arrive within hours.

He was known as lieutenantBaseballer, a name given to him by Jewish father who lived a simple life working amongst shadchanim, while serving his time doing the hair for the herrenvolk ¬– a group of well-rounded sycophants. He even managed to put together a bunch of ideologues, money hungry, economists, who saw themselves as vigilantes and who could take down a bunch of osteopaths and morticians practicing weird things in the Big Apple.

Lieutenant Fritz Struber had just received the keys to his new flat. The flat was on the third foor of the Konigsplatz, an apartment block that had been recently cleared of Jews to make way for accommodating decent folk, namely, the Herrenvolk. There must be still a whiff of the Jewish scum around, Fritz thought in contempt the moment he stepped inside; the ambience felt so dingy and careworn it had the Strubers wrinkling their noses and wanting to turn back. All the same, housing was hard to come by, even with the clearances, and he should be grateful they now had a flat. Now he and his family stood outside the door of the flat that was going to be theirs, and Fritz fumbled in his pocket for the key.

Fritz’s son Otto abruptly stopped fidgeting – a question had just struck him. He didn’t know why because he hadn’t cared. Maybe it had been the dinginess. In any case, Otto suddenly found himself asking, “Who lived here before us, Father?”

“Oh, nobody much – just some Jews, I think, son. Nothing to worry about,” mumbled Fritz in a noncommittal tone. Actually, the flat he and his family were about to take over had belonged to the Weiss brothers, who had set up well for themselves as shadchanim. That didn’t do much for them the night a bunch of angry vigilantes stormed their office and lynched them to show what wonder ideologues they were to the Fatherland. Fritz had heard about that vaguely, but wasn’t bothered about it.

Nothing to worry about, Fritz had said. But at the mention of the word ‘Jews’ and Otto flew into loud “Death to Jews!”, swung his arm like a frenzied baseballer before lunging into an imaginary stab, and then saluted proudly, “Heil Hitler!” It rang loudly down the staircase, where some people below heard, looked up and said, “Now there’s a fine young man!” “I can see we’ve got nice new neighbours!” One man looked up, smiled, and then turned back to the economists’ latest forecasts in Der Zeitung.

Otto’s parents laughed and patted his head proudly. “Well done, Otto! You’ll make a fine soldier for the Fatherland!” said Fritz. “Now there’s my boy!” smiled Gretel, his mother. Otto beamed from ear to ear; he had long since learned the lesson of sycophancy and it had paid off yet again. The Strubers felt their spirits surge, a welcome thing after the dampening downstairs.

The key went into the lock and the door swung to.

All of a sudden, their surging spirits hit bottom.

The door had not opened up to a welcoming sight. The interior was dim, and the ivy leaf wallpaper made it feel claustrophobic. As the Strubers stared at the wallpaper, it felt as if those ivy leave were closing in on them. And some corners were so higgledy-piggledy that they needed osteopaths. As the Strubers stared at the interior, an odd chill hit them. Nobody would have thought the flat had only recently been vacated. The atmosphere felt as if nobody had been there for years – it smelt so – musty. Decayed, even. Fritz began to feel cold, although it was summer. At his side, he felt his son Otto shrivel, his zest for death to Jews shrivelling into shivering. Gretel began to pant slightly. “This is our – new flat?”

“Yes, dear,” said Fritz in a tone of finality. He didn’t like it, but it was their new place. He straightened his shoulders military fashion. He was a soldier, trained to defend the Fatherland. He should be ashamed of himself, he told himself, feeling afraid of a flat.
Gretel sighed. She told herself that once they had moved in, made the place their own, and given it a thorough redecorating it would be nice and cheery. It certainly could do with a redecorating anyway – that ivy wallpaper would definitely not do. Her mind turned to nice pretty roses while Otto wished for aeroplanes. He had always wanted to fly and wished he was several years older so he could join the Luftwaffe. But he bet his parents would choose something stuffy and grown-up that would probably be just as revolting as the ivy.
They stepped into the flat and looked around full circle. It felt even more intimidating now that all four walls were on them. The atmosphere would be just right for morticians.

Fritz straightened his shoulders again, trying to shake it off, and set his suitcase down. He then put on a determinedly brave face and took Otto’s hand. “Come on, Otto, let’s have a look around at our new home!”

In the 1930’s a group of young people from the university jokingly appointed themselves “The Sycophantics,” and sought to join “The Herrenvolk,” a contemptible university club that had the dubious reputation of creating events that featured various activities aimed at promoting cultural superiority, and hoarding job opportunities that exclude certain races and religious beliefs. The Herrenvolk, true to their despicable character, treated the youth to a dose of shame, cultural superiority and rejection at the “club interview.” Undaunted, they attended the first club meeting flattering anyone and everyone who would listen; after a strained half hour, the youth exposed their practical joke, and succeeded in converting many of the Herrenvolk away from the club. How did they do it? With Upside-down cake and barbecue. That year, the university had many strange and whimsical groups to participate in, “The Baseballers, Shadchanim, Ideologues, Morticians (keeping dead tired students excited about studying), Economists, Vigilantes and Osteopaths; yes, Osteopaths, a group of medical students who were interested in practicing the combination of alternative medicine and conventional medicine. After a long disputed conflict between the Economists and Vigilantes, Leiutenant Mc Carthy decided to challenge the clubs to a tug o’ war to settle the conflict, the day of the tug, each club decided that after the challenge they would shake hands and have some upside down cake and barbecue, thus ending the rivalry. What a surprise! At the end of the semester, The Herrenvolk embarked on a journey of reconciliation with clubs they had offended with their obnoxious bylaws and disbanded the club.